


Five times Hastur and Ligur Weren't Betrayed, and One Time They Were

by Daegaer



Series: Fall from Grace - Hastur and Ligur [11]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Betrayal, Demons, Fallen Angels, Friendship, Hell, Humor, Loyalty, M/M, Rated For Violence, Soldiers, Spies & Secret Agents, Torture, War in Heaven (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 03:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20735576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Hastur and Ligur get away with things due to the loyalty of others. Until they don't.





	Five times Hastur and Ligur Weren't Betrayed, and One Time They Were

_Five_

"The commander says we need to stand ready," the captain said. "He's ordered the nearest armory opened; get moving - I want to see every one of you armoured and with sword or spear, _now_." He gestured imperiously with his ivory staff of command towards the armory gate.

"We're _arming_?" one angel muttered to the next in line, noting that some of his number had anticipated the captain's order and already had weapons. "But this is all talk, isn't it?" He winced as the captain zeroed in on him. 

"The commander says this order's direct from the Seraph Malkiel. Are you arguing with a seraph?"

"No, sir."

"What about the commander? You think you're bright enough to be arguing with cherubs, now?"

"No, sir."

The soldiers watched the captain fly back to the higher ranked officers. They looked agitated and excited, like temporality had suddenly started and they couldn't wait to get doing irrevocable things.

"This isn't right," the angel said as everyone broke into a flurry of movement about him. "I mean, we were just _talking_. What are we going to do with weapons? There's only one use for _weapons_. . . . I don't think the commander was right to talk to Lucifer. Come on, we should let the other archangels know about this –"

His eyes rolled up as one of his closest friends struck him from behind with a long-handled axe. He plummeted down to land on the chalcedony pavement below, his wings trailing, and his other limbs loose and lifeless. All the rest of the squad froze, staring down in horror, and then slowly looking back up at the murderer before breaking out in condemnations. The commotion attracted the officers' attention and they glided over, clearly ready to deal out swift discipline.

"He was a turncoat, sir," the murderer said with loud conviction over the hubbub, his axe still dripping silvery ichor. He pulled against the hands holding him, trying to present himself to the captain. "He was talking about turning the commander in!" He looked at the commander in appeal, trying to raise the axe in salute. Furious hands pulled his arms down again.

"You couldn't have tried _reason? _" the captain said with biting sarcasm. "One of your own _brothers_ -"

The commander put a hand on his arm, and he fell silent. All the angels looked down as the commander's lambent gaze swept over them. He was firm, but fair. But he'd had a lot on his mind recently, and his temper had never been all that long. 

"Get that soldier's name," he said, looking at the axe-wielding angel. "I want him rewarded when we win." He looked away from the angel's relieved face and around at his legion. "Why aren't the rest of you boys armed?" he asked. "Let's get this fucking thing started."

The remaining angels hastily cheered, and streamed towards the armory.

* * *

_Four_

"What _is_ this place?"

The angels perched on the sharp rocks looked in sheer irritation at the one who had spoken. Beneath them the lake of fire lapped at the outcrop, eating away at the porous rock. 

"This is _awful_. We were supposed to _win_."

The angel who complained stabbed his spear into the rock and watched a slab tumble down to splash into the fire below. A cry of frustration floated up from a group perched lower down as sulphurous flames sputtered up against them.

"Shut up. Just – shut up," another angel said, pulling out a handful of his own feathers in sheer misery. "Why do you always have to _whine?_ You were almost as bad before the fighting!"

"I'm just telling the _truth_. Are you telling me the officers expected this? Do you think the legion commander wanted us here? I mean _look_ at him –" 

He pointed over at the next outcropping of rock, covered in squabbling officers. All the angels gave a half-hearted cheer as they saw their commander and his best mate take down another cherub in a fist-fight. Their cheers died away as the commander's pal swung his sword round viciously and sliced down with all his might. A full-scale fight broke out amongst the officers; all over the larger rock the lower-ranked angels began to stand, uncertainly picking up their weapons, and shifting from foot to foot. One or two took off a little then landed again, looking lost as no one followed them up.

"Should we go over there?" one asked.

"Let the bastards settle it for themselves," a voice yelled from somewhere deep in the crowd.

There was a moment of shock, followed by uneasy laughter. Then they began to sit down again and lay bets.

"This is ridiculous," the angel who had complained said as his squadron-mates whooped cheerfully at the commander tackling and actually biting an opponent who was trying to hamstring his friend. "How is any of that conduct becoming an angel of _any_ rank? Why did any of us follow him?"

"He's a great tactician," another said. "Isn't he?"

"He _lost_. The _Morningstar_ lost. We are in deep, deep –" He waved a hand expressively. He furiously stabbed at the rock again and flung the resulting slab downwards, aiming for a lower group of angels. "We're all fools and we followed fools – but we're just ordinary soldiers. It's not our fault if we trusted those in command; I bet if we dragged our officers back home in chains we could get a pardon. There's enough of us to take the commander, and once we do it other legions will follow –"

He seemed extremely surprised as the others overwhelmed him, comprehensively broke his wings and tossed him down into the fire.

"I don't know about any of you," one of them said, sitting again and wiping the silvery ichor and feathers off his hands, "but committing treason _once_ in my existence was enough for me."

* * *

_Three_

The sound of wings was all but inaudible in the high winds whipping about the walls of Dis. The land outside the city was overgrown and wild, perfect for hunts and murders. And clandestine meetings. The thing to do was avoid the patrols and sentries. And the monsters. And the _fucking_ pits of stinking mud. The tall demon who had just landed behind a rock and was now creeping past an overgrown buttress stared down at his legs in disgust. That was going to stick for centuries. He hated spies and their ideas of inconvenient places to meet. Why the little sneak couldn't have met somewhere inside the city he didn't know.

Saleos slid along the bottom of the wall to the precise location that he had been assured was out of view of all the sentry posts. It was worrying to think that that might be true. He almost felt that he should report that – what if an enemy attacked? _Stupid_, he told himself. _Who's going to attack Dis? Heaven?_ A more alarming and immediate foe slid into his mind. Pandaemonium. He shivered, though the temperature was just as hot as ever. Now he really was being stupid. Why would the _capital_ attack _Dis_? Shit. What if someone in the capital was listening to him think that?

"Psssst."

He whipped his head around, his eyes glowing red with suppressed worry and anger.

"You're late."

The spy folded her wings and scurried over, shifting her satchel-strap to lie more comfortably as she approached. "Keep your wings on. I'm at the rendezvous, and I've got the intel. _In what aisle would I find the golden hedgehogs?_"

"Navalah, you can see quite well it's me, bugger your stupid passwords. Why the Heaven do you always have to sound like a cheap contraband novel from Earth?"

She frowned. "Contraband from Earth isn't cheap. Does His Grace give you a good deal for being such a faithful and loyal servant?" An infuriating smile came over her skinny, dark face as the taller demon pounced forwards and picked her up by the throat, crashing her back against the city wall.

"You keep your mouth off His Grace's title and name," he said. "You work for _me_."

"Thank you for the kind reminder, Captain Saleos, your indulgence to this poor being is always gracious and passing wondrous," she hissed, sounding no little amused.

"If you weren't good at what you do you would find me a great deal less accommodating," he said, letting his claws sink in, just a little. "Maybe I should make you lick the mud off my feet." She was definitely beginning to smirk. He frowned as she put a hand on his arm, seemingly with no intent to pull his claws away. She was quite definitely stroking his arm. Annoying little thing. He let her drop down, more gently than she deserved. "What news?"

"No more love-pats? Down to business, then. First, from the offices of the Seventh Torment, blank copies of those documents you wanted –" She pulled a sheaf of yellowing vellum from her satchel. "All signed, and sealed with Dagon's personal seal. On older documents so they'll look like they've been knocking around for a while. Not that it's any of my business, but these are financial forms. Are we going to find that your master has suddenly been approved for a large bonus in his budget and to have got the ok to increase personal fortifications? Is he going to war? Who are you going to war against?"

"Not your business, as you point out," Saleos said, scanning the documents. "And the rest?" 

"This one's a verbal report," she said. "Are you sure you want it?"

"Just tell me."

He leaned back against the city wall watching her as she ruffled her boring wings, now brushed through with soot to make her flight less conspicuous, looking for a moment abashed. He pulled out a cigarette that His Grace had benevolently given him after a trip to Earth, lit it with a thought and handed it over. She looked at it and him wordlessly, then took a drag. They passed it back and forth, drawing the sweet, mortal smoke down deep. Luxuries like that were strictly forbidden in Dis for nobodies such as them, so perhaps meeting outside the city wasn't so bad after all, Saleos thought.

"I followed my chosen target for several temporal months, to be sure of its appearance and habits," Navalah said, her eyes half-closed with pleasure at the hit of temporality. "Its carcass is hidden in a firepit all the way over towards Purgatory; by the time it gets back home it'll be so confused and dazed it'll probably think it was sleeping off a bender. I took on its duties in Hastur's household as a minor servitor; not too high up so he'd have a lot of personal contact with me and might spot something was off, but close enough that I saw inside his offices and his personal quarters and so on. Only once unsupervised by other servants in his personal quarters – all he did that time was look mean, throw a pen across the room, bang his fist on the table and say _More wine_ \- but I was hanging around a _lot_ of planning meetings and general household affairs. I handed out sandwiches in one meeting where his accountants tried to kill each other with pencils and set-squares. That was fun. There were a few mass runs of rations to the guards' quarters - safety in numbers, the kitchen demons said. His guards are a bunch of filthy minded bastards, by the way."

Saleos looked at her in a possessive fury. She was a small, nondescript demon without proper defenses, and Hastur's guards were all tall and strong. It wasn't that they weren't proper enough soldiers, but he knew what a senior demon's guards could be like, after all. The thought of her, undefended in a guardroom – 

"What? What did they say?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle, and they confined their remarks to stuff about the servants, nothing about their _betters_. You officers, you're such prudes. I bet your soldiers say a lot more than you know when you're out of hearing range."

"Get on with the report," Saleos said in annoyance at her knowing grin. He kept his lads in proper order. He didn't know why he'd spent even a moment's worry about the little sneak.

"In all that time, I saw no evidence, none, that Hastur is planning anything at all against His Grace. I saw plenty of evidence that he spends his spare time writing long letters to His Grace of a – personal nature - that he test-reads excerpts of at his captain of the guards who stands there looking horrified that he might have to make a comment. Then he tears the letters up and throws the captain out of the room."

Saleos felt long-held tension leave him, the ache across his back and shoulders as if he were perpetually ready to leap up into airborne battle dissipating. His Grace had always associated with Duke Hastur, of course, even _Before_, but things were different now, and friendships meant nothing. Maybe this one still did.

"What other evidence did you find of his intentions towards His Grace?"

She looked uncomfortable. "I have no idea how to describe his views on His Grace. How would you describe His Grace's views on him?"

Saleos opened his mouth to answer and found himself saying nothing. He shrugged, not liking to think of the way Their Graces looked at each other sometimes.

"Yeah," Navalah said. "They're not _enemies_, that's for sure." She held up the cigarette butt. "Can I have this?" 

"Yes, all right."

She tucked it away carefully, and looked expectantly at him. Saleos shook out a few tokens for her, exchangeable against the substance of the damned. And a few more, to emphasize that she'd not find a better employer elsewhere; certainly not one who could give her the odd bit of contraband.

"Don't stay out of touch," he said, detaining her with a hand on her thin, wiry arm. He kept the claws to the lightest touch he could this time, thinking how easily he could encircle her upper arm with his hand. He let go as he noted the smile growing on her face. "I'll want your services again soon enough. These forms will need to be inserted into Dagon's files when they're filled out. And next time, let's meet inside the city."

She grinned, hiding her payment away. "Maybe. You city boys need the exercise. I'm glad to have seen you, Saleos. You're looking well. You call, I'll come running." She spread her wings and took off, then turned, hovering in the air. "Hey, Saleos?"

"What?" he said.

"Neither of them deserve their servants and guards, you do know that?"

He crooked a smile up at her, thinking she wouldn't have looked so sniveling and sneaky Before. She would have been beautiful and joyous. They would have met openly. 

"I've got my loyalty," he said. "I'm not giving it up."

* * *

_Two_

"You trust him?" Ligur asked, watching the little snake sashay off in a dejected manner, basket hanging from his fingers.

"'Course not," Hastur said. "I don't trust no-one."

"Good."

They watched Crowley leaning his head against his car. He seemed to be breathing rather heavily for something that didn't need to breathe at all.

"Is he cryin'?" Ligur said in astonishment.

"It better be wiv fuckin' joy at the great honour he's only gone and received," Hastur growled. "Oi, Crowley! Get a move on!"

The car door opened and Crowley collapsed in, putting the basket in the back, the car reversing away before the door closed again. 

"Flash bastard," Hastur muttered. "He ain't even drivin' it proper. Proper vintage, that is, needs respect."

"Take yer word for it," Ligur said, suddenly thinking he probably shouldn't comment on what had seemed like a very modern car. "Want to get sumfing to eat?"

"Yeah, we've got time before he delivers it to them nuns. We'll get a snack or something. Have a nun or two for dessert."

They grinned at each other and strolled out of the graveyard, heading in the direction of the local animal shelter.

*

Driving down country roads at a sedate seventy miles an hour, Crowley beat his head on the steering wheel and howled in fury and desolation. Not _now_. Not when his life was so blessed _comfortable_. He didn't want it to stop. He didn't want _anything_ to stop. In fact –

"Stop."

The Bentley went from seventy to zero obediently. Crowley held up a hand and caught the basket that shot forwards from the back seat. A mildly quizzical noise came from within.

Only Hastur and Ligur knew that this had actually been handed over. And they were – to put it mildly – thick. Suppose he could get the delivery form he'd signed back and convince everyone that they had lost their charge? Pro: they'd undoubtedly be tortured for a good part of eternity and he could get back to doing nothing much. Con: Eventually they'd come looking for his hide. Pro: they might well have forgotten _why_ they were being tortured; they really were idiots. Con: They were Dukes, he was _nothing._ He'd have to be very careful in setting them up.

First things first, he had to dispose of the material evidence. What if he just flung the basket and its contents over a hedge? He shivered. No. The damn thing would just be found by some friendly fox or something and raised in the wild. He knew how these stories went. Same if he went for any other traditional method like floating it down the Thames. _Someone_ would pluck the basket out of the river the moment his back was turned. He entertained a brief fantasy of the thing being raised by the royal family, and decided that was a fate too awful even for what lay inside. It would have to be disposed of definitively.

He got out of the car, the basket held gingerly in one hand. Carefully not thinking about anything at all he walked down the road and placed it right in the centre. Then he walked back to the car and got in. He sat there for quite a while, telling himself he just had to do this, and then he could go home and plan how to pin it on those idiots. He got out of the car again and looked down the road, checking that it was neatly aligned. It was a cold night, and the thing in the basket was crying now, distressed to be left alone in the dark.

"This one thing," Crowley told himself. "And you drive straight home. No. Straight to Soho. This'll be a joint planning effort." He had to admire how steady his voice was. It was good to know he could still sound convincing under pressure.

The engine started, and he floored the accelerator. At the last split second he heard the crying, and found the wheel had turned. He came to a stop and went back. Missed it by less than half an inch, he reckoned. He sat on the tarmac beside the basket and put his head in his hands. Who was he kidding – he couldn't even hit the blessed wildlife and he'd thought he could do this? He was a shoddy excuse for a demon, he thought. And he'd be a dead excuse for one if he didn't get a move on.

"Come on, then," he said wearily, climbing up. "Let's get to wherever we're going."

He carried the basket back to the car and started driving again. He'd have to find some other way to get back at Hastur and Ligur, he thought. He'd come up with _something_.

* * *

_One_

Hastur shot into his private chambers as fast as thought, shutting the doors quietly.

"Hide everyfing," he hissed. "Quick!"

"Wot? Why?" Ligur said, rolling over and examining his claws. "'Ere, do you think I can carry off gildin', or izzat a bit much?"

"Will you _please_ stop doin' yer nails like one of them ponces from the Seventh Circle and get out of bed?" Hastur said. "There's a bloody party –"

"Wot party? Why're you throwin' a party?"

"Fuckin' _Hell_. A party of higher-ups, Ligur. They just bleedin' manifested in the bleedin' _office_. It's a surprise audit."

"Ohhhhh, shit," Ligur said. "Who's been tellin' tales?"

"Dunno, but I am gonna find out if I have to personally dig through the entrails of each and every one of my slaves – "

"That's just a weekday, round mine," Ligur sniffed. He hopped out of bed and pulled on the first thing that came to hand.

Hastur looked at him in despair. Ligur was always a welcome sight, in his view, but right now the image of him dressed in a grubby white nightie with a tinsel-and-wire halo just said all too clearly that they'd been playing Angels and Demons.

"Mebbe something else?" he suggested. "That displays the majesty and might of yer position?"

Ligur gave him A Look while muttering something about _positions_, and made an occult gesture. The nightie became a far better robe made of shadows and flames.

"Can't beat traditional," he said, grabbing up a set of long-handled combs.

"We don't have time for you to do yer wings!"

"I ain't goin' out there with a bad case of bed-feathers!"

Hastur fumed as Ligur combed his wings into order, then shook them out, then bloody started all over again. It was too much. Rather than scream, or explode, he decided he'd leave the bastard to it and go to see if the bureaucrats were holding their own. He hurried back to the office and found his accountants having their feet held to the fire by Mammon's retainers.

"Oi," he said. "Do you mind? I'll do the torturin' round here."

A few accountants were released, probably because he'd surprised everyone by popping back unexpectedly, he thought morosely. Their screams took on a tinge of gratitude as they attempted to hide behind him. Bleeding wonderful. He looked like he _cared_ about his staff.

"Ah, Hastur, you've rejoined us," Mammon said, sitting back at Hastur's desk, with his feet up on Hastur's current favourite body-servant. He dropped a scroll dismissively. "Exactly how stupid do you think we are down in Finances? You've been cooking your books. That's forgivable of course, but you've been doing it really, _really_ obviously. That's just sloppy. A little chimaera tells me that you're actually so far in the red that you may as well write your accounts in ink that doesn't reflect visible light."

"Yeah, you turn that chimaera over to me and we'll find out the truth of the matter," Hastur said, trying to ignore the pleas for help and succor from his bureaucrats. Embarrassing, it was, having your servants ask for help _publicly_. "Will you lot stop that?" he said tetchily to the accountants hiding behind him who were clinging on to his legs and clothes. "Just give over." He whistled for his guards who rushed in and stopped, looking shocked.

"Lord Hastur!" the captain said. "Erm, I wasn't aware –"

"Yeah, I bloody noticed. Take all the non-essential personnel out of here. I got to have a little chat with Lord Mammon."

"Oh, if they so much as scratch my staff it goes on your account," Mammon said genially.

"Remove the bleedin' penpushers careful, like," Hastur growled. "And that one." He pointed at Mammon's footstool.

"This one's essential," Mammon said, shifting his feet so the poison spurs on his heels dug further in. "Aren't you, my sweet?"

The quivering demon wasn't so stupid as to actually answer.

"Now," Mammon said when they were alone but for Mammon's set of financial fault-finders and Hastur's now openly-weeping servant, "let's discuss why you are such an incompetent embezzler and how you are going to reimburse the imperial treasury."

"I haven't embezzled anything," Hastur said. It was always best to brazen these things out. Start with the obvious lie, and work down to a more believable one.

"If you think I don't have the authority to set my staff on _you,_ you are very sadly mistaken," Mammon said in a _Let's all be reasonable_ tone. "If you think you're getting out of this room _without_ me setting them on you, you're just stupid." He sounded a lot less reasonable. He gestured around the offices. "These are nice rooms. They must have been expensive. What are your private rooms like, I wonder? And your fortifications? Why does money come out of your accounts and go into – " He produced a scroll from nowhere " – the accounts of Duke Ligur?"

"Because," Ligur said, appearing in a small clap of thunder, "I borrowed it. At a rate of 100,000% APR, which you got to agree is an impressive rate to have argued anyone down to." 

He strolled past Hastur, done up to the nines in his fancy conjured robes and just _dripping_ with gold. The little bugger had been rifling through _his_ jewelry, Hastur saw, but maybe that was all right. He looked – rich. And powerful too, which he was, but it was easy to forget that when you saw how Ligur normally dressed.

"Wotcher, Mammon," Ligur said, sitting down and looking around as if he really didn't find the presence of Hell's senior financial officer all that interesting. "Don't you have anything more important to be doing? I'm good for the loan, Hastur here knows that. I ain't goin' to traduce his name by sayin' he's an honest dealer, but he knows I always pay up." He pulled a sheaf of vellum out of his sleeve. "I got the financial statements right here, increasin' central office payments to me; so you can see I can pay Hastur back. It's all official, all above board."

"Let me see those," Mammon said, narrowing his eyes and holding out an imperious hand.

"Nah-ah, look with yer eyes, Mammon, not wiv yer hands." Ligur held the documents up one by one in front of the increasingly outraged financial demon.

"This is ridiculous," Mammon spat, leaning forwards in agitation. "How – when was this authorized? This should have gone through my office!"

"Is this or is this not Dagon's personal seal _and_ signature?" Ligur said, tapping an indifferently-gilded claw against one sheet. "And this one – headed _Infernal Financial Bureau_ . . . that _is_ you, ain't it?"

"I never signed that!"

"I'm not claimin' you did," Ligur said in a steely voice that Hastur had to admit was really doing it for him. "I am claimin' that you'll never prove it wasn't one of your staff what did."

"You're a lot better at this than he is, I'll give you that," Mammon said snippily. "Fine. Hastur, it looks like a filing error was made. Don't come to my attention again. And I'm taking this." He stood and pulled the terrified servant up by its neck. "Let's go, boys."

"Lord Hasturrrr-" the servant shrieked as the entire group vanished.

Hastur rolled his eyes. Bleeding auditors. He really hated them.

"Where'd you get them permission slips?" he said as Ligur slouched down and put his feet up on the desk.

"Dunno, exactly. They were in my desk drawer one day, all shiny and waiting to be filled in. I s'pose Somebody Down There likes me. Wot matters is that it worked."

Hastur grinned. He wasn't being tortured, he was only down one slave, there was no one else in the room and Ligur looked really good. He could afford one brief indulgence, he thought, and pounced. There was a loud crash as Ligur's chair went over backwards.

"Hastur," Ligur said indistinctly. "Are you huggin' me?"

". . . No," Hastur said. "I'm invitin' you to get yer arse back into my bedchamber, put my jewelry back and then to partake of a really long –"

" – interdepartmental discussion?"

"Yeah. After which we find where the leak came from."

"Mmm," Ligur said dreamily into the crook of his neck. "Diggin' through entrails."

"Yeah. Later."

The air clapping back together after them, they vanished from the office.

* * *

_Zero_

"My lord," the cupbearer said when permission was granted to speak, "a message has come up from the cellars." It passed over a note, and filled Belial's goblet as he read. As he watched, it took a careful mouthful of the wine, wiped the edge of the goblet and swallowed, waiting until it was clear that this bottle was safe before handing the goblet over. Belial drank slowly, and finished his meal, pushing the delicacies around the golden plate as if they were no longer of interest. Finally he stood, picked a scrap from the plate and fed it to the captive souls in the cage hanging by the window. They chirruped and sang as he gave them strips of raw flesh.

"There now," he said softly. "Such pretty things. Keep singing and you won't end up on the plate."

He held out the goblet without looking, listening to the sound of the wine being poured to the precise level he required. He took a sip, and another before put it down. None of the servants was looking directly at him, but all their attention was firmly focused on him all the same. He smiled gently.

"I believe I will have dessert after I return from the cellars. You may clear the table. Do as you will with the leftovers."

They all made obeisance as he walked out, and kept utter silence as he went down the stairs. He wondered idly how long they'd be able to keep it up. He hadn't let any of them have sustenance for years; _someone_ was bound to get injured fighting over his scraps. Maybe even eaten by the others. How amusing.

The cellar door was made of red-hot, reinforced iron. He didn't keep wine down there, of course, there just wasn't room given all the interrogation equipment. The guard on duty bowed and swung the door open for him, as silent as he required all his servants to be in his presence.

"Good evening!" he said pleasantly over the screams. "I hear you have news?"

"My lord! Your presence does us much honour!"

Belial kept the slightly empty smile on his face. His chief interrogator was skilled and could be allowed an occasional slip of propriety, he supposed. And he _had_ spoken first. 

"The news?"

"The prisoner is ready to speak with you, if you will permit that wretched creature's voice to be heard," the interrogator said. "We left its voice intact."

"So I hear," Belial said merrily as the screams rose in volume again. "Your underlings have very good control with their knives." He magnanimously cut off the stream of obsequious thanks. "Let's hear what the prisoner has to say, shall we?"

The interrogator turned and gestured at the others, who hauled their victim off the table. It was a medium sized creature, by now missing most of its skin and all of its feathers, the wings peeled back to the bone, feathers and skin hanging down the flayed back like a ruined cloak, some shreds of flesh still adhering to the glistening tendons. It looked in incomprehension at Belial and fell to its knees, raw flesh hitting the hot stone with a sizzle. The scent of cooking meat and scorched feathers made Belial wonder what dessert would be waiting for him when he finished.

"Please –"

"You have something to tell me," Belial prompted. "About your master."

It looked up at him, blinking through its own blood. It looked very much like it had forgotten who and what it was.

"Water," Belial said softly, holding out a hand. A cup of briny fluid was put in his fingers, and he seized the prisoner by the chin, dribbling some water into the dazed demon's mouth and over the flayed meat of its face. After a few seconds it twitched and began to swallow.

"Now then, I am Belial. You were about to tell me something about Hastur."

It soundlessly formed his name, then some sort of sense came back into the skinned face, and it grabbed his hand with bloody fingers. How undisciplined Hastur's household must be, Belial thought, giving an encouraging smile.

"Lord Belial," the demon croaked, "please – don't give me back to them."

"What can you tell me?"

"Please, please – yes, Lord Hastur – I mean, Hastur that shit, I'm sorry Lord Has- I mean Lord Belial – he, he – don't give me back to them – no – wait - _Duke Ligur!_" The demon sank down gasping. "Hastur and, and Duke Ligur, my Lord Belial. Make me your servant. Protect me, I beg you. They'd kill me for telling."

Belial bared his fangs in what was still technically a smile. The creature's fingers were slippery on his hand with its own ichor; it needed to keep scrabbling at him to keep a grip. 

"What about Hastur and Ligur? Come _on_."

The demon looked up at him in what he thought might actually be _hope_. How disgusting. __

_ _"They're very - _fond_ of each other, my lord."_ _

_ _Belial straightened up, hissing in satisfaction. As he turned to go the demon flung itself full length, clutching at his feet._ _

_ _"My lord, my lord! Take me as your slave, please, please! I'm telling the truth, don't leave me here! I wish only to serve you!"_ _

_ _Belial found that he was in an excellent humour, and not averse to rewarding those who had pleased him._ _

_ _"This is my slave," he said, pointing at the gratefully weeping creature on the floor, "Who shall obey me in all things."_ _

_ _"Yes, yes, my lord."_ _

_ _"Excellent. Then cooperate with my dear interrogators a while longer. We really must see if you have any more useful information. Your duties will be assigned at some later time."_ _

_ _The screams had already started again as he reached the door. He laughed almost all the way up the stairs._ _


End file.
